Hawk


The hawk holds the fish down 
On the tree limb—one talon 

Stuck through the gut—calls 
And calls, cocks its head to the wind, 

Waits for someone to share the fish with, 
And soon. Minutes tick in the stomach.

The hawk leans down, nips and takes 
Another taste. Gray flesh hangs.

Now a call from somewhere else.
The hawk’s white head 

Spins to it. Fish tail twitches,
Hits the air like a hiccup.

The body, spasmodic, batters its devourer 
While the flesh is torn away.

Inside the studio, a horse’s head
In white marble stares at me

From a perfect hole.
Outside, palm trees shake no and yes.

The fish has quieted down
Under the biting beak

As bits of itself
Drop back to the canal.





Escape from the Crocodile Farm

“About 15,000 crocodiles escaped from a South African reptile farm [after] driving rains forced the Limpapo River over its banks … The farm’s owners … opened the gates, springing the crocodiles …” 
                                                                                  –New York Times, January 25, 2013

The farm has lost its source of skins
That stock the curio shop with leather bags, 

Croc meat barbequed
For tourists’ picnic lunches. 

One croc is found alone on a rugby field,
Like the last kid picked for the team.

Others are found at night
Among clumps of mud

In orange groves lining the river.
Eyes shine and give themselves away.

Half are caught and brought back to the farm.
Half remain in the river, 

Where villagers wait to be rescued
As the crocs circle.

Their mouths hang open
To taste the crazy rain.

They close their jaws 
When they’ve chosen to.





Burning the Squirrels


The “how-to” article explains
A natural way to get rid of squirrels.

I saw one this morning on the porch,
Something in its mouth—an acorn or one

Of my spring bulbs and the garden
Filled with holes.

I chop onions and jalapeños
Like the instructions say,

Boil the water,
Dump teaspoon after teaspoon 

Of cayenne. A knock at the door.
Lady from the gas company

Arrives to turn on the heat.
I offer green tea and cookies.

We cough as the pepper sauce simmers.
She’s gone. I pour it on the lawn. 

Julie stops by:
What are you doing? she says.

Don’t you know?
The squirrels will scratch their eyes out.

I tell her, I thought the smell puts them off,
But she says, No, they get sauce on their paws 

When they dig in the soil,
Rub their eyes and scratch them out.

I say, Julie, I had no idea.
She says, You can water the lawn.

I say, It’s going to rain.